Grantaire's Letter
by Ravariel
Summary: A first attempt at Grantaire, written for a fic fest. Grantaire never gets letters, and the contents and results of this one are a shock.


The porter pressed a letter into Grantaire's hand as he came into the building late at night and started up the stairs to his flat. A letter? Really?

He never got letters. Who was there to send them? All his friends were in Paris and he saw them frequently enough that they would have no need to write—not anything more than a scribbled note, anyway. He unlocked his door and dropped the letter on the table. As he turned to sprawl on the couch, he did a double-take and recognized the handwriting.

He'd always noticed types of handwriting. When he was young, he'd think of it as a measure of how much art there was in a person. And there was no art in this writing, which was almost just like his father's.

His brother Philippe? No, he must be imagining it. But he was hardly drunk at all tonight—funds were tight lately and everyone had been too busy with serious matters to ask him to share a bottle, so he'd taken his few glasses slowly and watched Enjolras as an alternate form of escaping his own thoughts. Which meant, unfortunately, that his perceptions were clear—this really had to be Philippe's writing. He picked up the letter from the table again and took it over to the couch, wishing he were drunk.

_My dear brother:_

He snorted. Dear brother, indeed—dear brother that you've neither seen nor written to in five years? I'm very dear to you, I'm sure.

_I have the misfortunate necessity of going to Paris for business at the end of this week._

Another snort, and Grantaire mentally gave his brother mocking pat on the head. Poor, poor Philippe, having to enter the den of corruption and iniquity that is Paris! Be careful or you'll dirty your shoes by walking on the same streets as prostitutes—

_Although I am most reluctant to impose, I must call upon you for a favor._

He froze. Don't ask to stay with me, Philippe—there's no way in hell, because I swear I'll take myself there before I let you come in this flat and rail about the mess and the alcohol and the disgusting perversions of my life. I'll lock you out in the rain, at night, in danger of thieves and murderers, and not feel a modicum of pity—

_You remember, I am sure, that before Marie-Celeste passed she gave me a daughter…_

A daughter. Yes, and you mention it because? He read on warily.

_…whose current governess is an condemnable failure and has allowed her to live wildly. Because of this, I cannot leave the girl alone with her, nor can I procure any governess who is willing to take on a ward already spoiled by such bad rearing. Our relatives also refuse to temporarily take her in, and it would be most inappropriate for a girl of her class and family to be left solely to the care of servants. Because of these regrettable constraints, I must bring her with me to Paris, and this leads to my request._

No. No, no, no; God, no. _Hell_ no. He tossed the letter onto the couch and got up, rushing desperately to the cupboard. Yes, there were the reserves of a bottle, thanks be to Bacchus, and further praise be, it was absinthe. He drained the inch or so of liquid left in the bottom—hardly anything, but the familiarity of the taste was enough to calm him a bit.

He pulled a chair out from the table and dropped into it. Hands moving nervously up and down the empty bottle, he tried to think. Philippe was coming to Paris and wanted to inform him of the fact; that was bad enough. Philippe wanted something from him; that was worse. But Philippe would ask him to look after a _child_? As a more reliable alternative than a questionable governess? That was simply…unfathomable.

He dropped the bottle to let his head fall into his hands and began to laugh. There was nothing to do but laugh; this must be one of his most ludicrous hallucinations yet, and all the more frightening for how sensible it was at the same time…

His laughter broke off abruptly and he hurried over to pick up the letter again. The paper was real enough.

…_and this leads to my request. I have no choice but to put my daughter in your hands for the day of Thursday 14 February, for I will be occupied entirely with my work on that day. We will arrive in Paris on Wednesday evening and leave again on Friday morning, barring some unforeseen circumstance that would necessitate a longer stay. I will contact you when we arrive in the city in order to settle the time at which you will need to take her into your charge._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Your brother,_

_ Philippe Grantaire._

Arriving Wednesday evening? But it was already Monday night—they'd have already set out! There was no way to contact them, no way to say no…

With a groan, he shoved the letter in his pocket and headed out—low on money or not, he needed a drink.

The next two days were a flurry of confusion in which he alternated between resolving to make a good show of it and resolving to scare Philippe away however he possibly could. The first manifested in cleaning the flat, reducing his drinks, and even digging out old art supplies to make himself look like a respectable bohemian. The second caused him to make a disaster of his living quarters again, buy bottle after bottle, and do a shoddy job of painting and sketching alarming scenes to be left sitting around.

When the expected note came on Wednesday night, he was in the latter state, and Philippe's words threatened to drive him more deeply into it—he promised to drop off the girl at Grantaire's flat at seven the next morning, and to retrieve her by nine at night. Fourteen hours seemed an unbearably long time, and Grantaire moodily plunked down at the table to draw Scylla eating Odysseus' men. But in the middle of detailing the third of the monster's six heads, he suddenly crumpled up the paper, drained the glass before him for fortitude, and got up to make things presentable. There was nothing for it—if he looked dissolute, he'd be bombarded with lectures, and probably moralistic letters even after Philippe went away, and it was best to let his brother go on believing that he was a decent if careless fellow who was still planning to make something of himself in the world of art. He threw away the dark drawings and stuck the half-finished painting inside his wardrobe, then dragged out some old things of his that were more presentable and tried to think of where he'd put them if he were proud of them. A mostly-finished sketch of Cupid and Psyche that he'd given up on six months ago would do for a work-in-progress...hmm, he could hang up that old painting of Penelope at her loom. He hated it with a passion, from subject to composition to memories of the process attached—somebody had commissioned it and then rejected the finished project—but it looked respectable and Philippe knew nowhere near enough about art to realize all the problems it had. Grantaire consoled himself with the prospect of destroying it once it had served its purpose.

All the bottles could be stashed in the cupboard, the dirty clothes shut in the wardrobe or shoved under the bed. He arranged a couple of objects on the table and started the bare bones of a still life, dragged out a few old textbooks and scattered them around. Opened the anatomy one to a diagram and put pieces of paper on top of the opposite side of the page as if intending to start an exercise.

Well past midnight, he decided he'd done a decent job of the studied disorder and, after consoling and congratulating himself with a drink, went to bed for a few hours of troubled sleep.

He woke not long before six, dragged himself up, dressed, ate something, scribbled aimlessly on the still life. The minutes moved slowly, and his head pounded. It wasn't long before he decided to just go back to sleep for another half-hour—just as sleep came, however, he was startled awake by the realization that he didn't remember his niece's name. This panicked him for several minutes before drowsiness washed over him again, this time overwhelmingly, and he passed out face down on the mattress.

The knock, when it came, was startlingly loud. Instantly aware, Grantaire sat up, and dread flooded him. As he reluctantly hurried to answer the door, he straightened a few things, mindful of the picture he desired to present to his brother.

Feeling rather dazed, he pulled the door open. Philippe…yes, he looked the same as ever, still formal and dour. Beside him was a girl of eight, her face arranged in a stony pout.

"Hello," said Grantaire lamely.

"Hello," said Philippe, and he brought his daughter in. After casting a look around the flat, he tilted her chin up to make her look at him. "Now, you understand what will happen if you don't behave yourself for your uncle."

She met his gaze with clear annoyance. "Yes, Papa."

"Good." He addressed himself to Grantaire. "I'll return, as I said, around nine. She's already had breakfast."

Grantaire nodded.

"I see you're still following the path of art." Philippe shook his head with a condescending mixture of pity and disdain. "Well, I suppose if that's the most worthwhile thing you're capable of, then it's for the best."

Grantaire just lifted his eyebrows.

Philippe gave his daughter a rather forced smile. "Goodbye, Veronique."

She folded her arms and didn't answer.

"Veronique, I said goodbye."

She glanced up to show him her pressed-shut lips.

"Veronique!" But it was obvious he would get no polite farewell, so with a nod to his brother, Philippe went out and shut the door emphatically behind him.

Grantaire stared at the door for a long moment before he remembered with a start that Veronique was standing behind him. When he turned slowly towards her, he found that she was looking him over with a distrustful air.

"Well," he said, "Veronique—"

"My name is _not_ Veronique."

"It's not?"

She shook her head adamantly. "It's a stupid name."

He lifted his eyebrows. "All right. What _is_ your name, then?"

"Verrou."

"Verrou?" He couldn't repress surprise. "Like a lock?"

"Lucile, Lilou. Marguerite, Margot. Veronique, Verrou. Since I have to be named Veronique. I didn't get to pick."

A strange liking was already growing in him for this child, he realized. "I didn't get to pick either," he confided. "I dislike my name enough that I don't even tell it to people anymore."

For the first time, something more open and childlike came into her face. "Really? What do they call you, then? Papa says I should call you Uncle, but you're not everybody's uncle."

"Just Grantaire."

"But I can't call you that!" she protested. "It's my name, and Papa's name, and lots of other people's names too."

He shrugged. "Well, you can pick what you want to call me, then. And you're Verrou? Or would you rather be something that doesn't come from Veronique at all?"

She considered. "Can I really? I can be whatever name I want?"

Another shrug. "Unless you really want me to call you a lock."

"Not really. I just picked it because it was less stupid than Veronique, and my governess wouldn't let me change my name all the way. And she told me that just Ver didn't work either, because it was a word for worm." She gave a long-suffering sigh at the mention of this. "But you'll let me? You won't tell papa? He'd probably take away my toys like he does when I'm too mis-chiev-ous, but that just makes me want to be mis-chiev-ous more because I don't have anything to do."

He remembered his father using the mentioned punishment, although in a different variation—good marks in mathematics, or his art supplies would be locked away. It had never correctly motivated him either. "Yeah, any name you want. I don't tell on people."

She gave a grudgingly appreciative smile at this, and fell into deep contemplation. To avoid staring at her, he sat down at the table and studied Cupid and Psyche. When he looked up, she was at his elbow.

"Who's that?" She pointed.

"Oh, him? Cupid."

She considered this. "Did you know it's Saint Valentine's day?"

He cocked an eyebrow at the switch. "No."

"He goes with Saint Valentine's day, you know. Mlle. Gilbert—that's my governess—says so, and her sweetheart told her it. That's not why you drew him? You're good at drawing. Who's that girl?"

"Psyche."

"Call me that. I like Saint Valentine's Day, and I need you to like it with me, because Papa never does. I don't even ask him anymore. Does Psy-che go with Saint Valentine's day?"

He decided to humor her. "Sure. I can call you Psyche."

"And you Cupid? You said I could pick, you know."

Cupid. Him, Grantaire, as Cupid? He changed the subject. "You really should get out of your coat now that you're inside."

She did, but wasn't tricked. As she set her coat on the table, her glance was accusing. "Can I? Or didn't you mean it?"

"Of course I meant it," he grumbled.

She grinned. "Good. So if I'm her, and you're him, you have to be my Valentine!"

He very nearly slumped over the table at this. Fourteen hours with a child was overwhelming enough, but fourteen hours with a child who was demanding him as a Valentine? This was impossible. Surely he was dreaming, hallucinating, something. "Lethe," he muttered, "let me drown in your sweet streams."

When he finally looked up, she was sitting across from him at the table and staring. "Can I take my bow off?"

"What?"

"My hairbow." And he noticed only then that she was wearing a hairbow easily the size of her head.

"Don't see why not."

She ripped out of her hair and threw it on the floor. "I hate bows. But I don't think I'd hate them so much if Papa didn't make me wear them all the time. —Do you have some other Valentine? Is that why you don't want to be mine?"

A hundred answers rushed into his mind, all of them too complicated for him to bother explaining. "No."

She bit her lip, which he realized was trembling. "Then why?"

And as he looked at her, light brown curls now falling messily around her face, an emotion came over him that he could neither understand nor deny, and he smiled. Words that he could hardly believe he was saying came from his mouth. "You shouldn't worry, Psyche—I'm happy to be your Valentine. Should I make you a picture for a present?"

Her eyes widened. "Would you? Can—can I make you one too?"

"Yes." He dug out paper and pencils and some of his old paints in case she wanted them, and sat down—next to her this time—to sketch her face as she bent diligently over her paper.

Her resultant creation (dedicated in messy handwriting to "Uncle Cupid") was no masterpiece even for her age, but he kept it always, along with the memory of her smile when he gave her the picture of herself, and of the feel of her childish lips on his cheek when they said goodbye that night.


End file.
